


Metronome

by stuckybarnes



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bathing/Washing, Cute, Domestic Fluff, Embarrassment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Sad and Sweet, Self-Doubt, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms, Undressing, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: When Oliver was miraculously able to extend his stay in Italy, the two boys begin to learn more about each other, their strengths, their weaknesses, their quirks and flaws and beautiful mannerisms. And they grow together. Each chapter is a separate event.This is very hurt/comfort and soft.





	Metronome

**Author's Note:**

> It's a hurt/comfort fic. I needed to do it, and hadn't seen anyone else do the same thing. It's soft and fluffy and angsty.

Elio was not afraid of thunderstorms. He wasn’t. Or, not in the literal sense, at least.

He wasn’t scared of the lightning itself, nor of the thunder that followed. He didn’t think that the rain would flood their home and drown them, and he didn’t think that he would be miraculously killed by a stray strike of lightning.

But it was the _sounds,_ the _flashing lights,_ the _suspense._ That was what terrified Elio. He loved music partly because of its sonance. Music was repetitive and fluid and calming, and Elio knew exactly what to expect from music because of its inherent pattern. But thunderstorms? Who knew when it would thunder, who knew when the flash of light would blind him and set the room alight?  

Who knew?

The shock of it all, the sheer violence and aggression of the surprise storms were what always made Elio panic. It was just so loud, _chaotic and brutal,_ with no rhyme or reason.

Usually, Elio’s mother would read to him during storms, petting his hair with her thin fingers, or his father would play his music loud in the living room with Elio’s feet in his lap to drown out the storm. He didn’t need to explain himself - his parents were either very receptive to their child’s fears, or they simply didn’t mind Elio’s clinginess and thought nothing of it. But his mother and father were meeting with friends that night, and Elio felt, for all intents and purposes, _fucked._

He was glad that Oliver was able to prolong his stay here with them, but it was right in the middle of the rainy season in Italy and Oliver was just so… _Oliver._ It seemed as though Oliver was never scared of anything. He was always so confident, teasing and carefree, so in-the-moment. He had a smile so warm and eyes so bright that you would think Apollo himself crafted them in his toolshed.

How could Elio tell Oliver that he was afraid of something so normal?

As it turned out, he never had to.

Elio was in the bathroom off his bedroom, sitting with his knees to his chest in the tiny space between the shower and the toilet. His bare toes curled tightly against the tiled floor, the chill of them grounding Elio in a way that a warm bed could not right now.

With each boom of thunder and clap of lightning, Elio was tucking his body impossibly tighter, breath coming in hot shallow pants against his thighs. Rain stomped against the window panes and Elio was convinced that they would break and the thunder would shatter his eardrums. His hands shook and he felt like he’d swallowed stones that sat hard and painful in his lower belly. He shoved his hands roughly between his legs to stop them from shaking, to try and still himself, to ground himself with pain, _something._

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly through pain and panic and wonders how long he’ll feel pathetic.

And then, “Elio?”

Elio jumps, head snapping up. He hears the bedroom door close, Oliver’s curious footsteps padding through the bedroom towards the bathroom. His name in Oliver’s mouth, on Oliver’s tongue, is such a bittersweet sound, nothing and everything like the thunder outside.

Eventually, Oliver’s footsteps go silent, and Elio knows he’s stopped at the open bathroom door, staring at Elio’s feet sticking out from his hiding spot.

He walks in wordlessly, faster when he sees Elio’s shaking frame. Sure and slow, he kneels down, a hand on Elio’s knee.

“Elio. Hey,” he says, squeezing gently. This time, with worry laced thickly in his throat, “Elio, look at me.”

How could he not listen to that? Elio looks up, chin on his knees. He already knows he looks miserable; his cheeks always get red and blotchy when he cries, and his eyes get glossy, wayward curls falling into his face.

He’s immediately met with concern, Oliver’s brows knitting, his mouth taking a downturned angle that makes Elio’s chest hurt with guilt and shame. He looks up and down at Elio with an almost desperate haze, as if Elio is see-through, as if all of Elio’s pain and fear is plastered on his body for all to see.

And many times, this is true, even when he doesn’t know it.

“Where does it hurt?” Oliver asks, voice steady and strong against the echo in the bathroom tiles.

He shakes his head but he doesn’t answer; the storm does that for him. A brilliant flash of light seizes the room, and then the brutal roar of thunder makes Elio jolt so sharply that Oliver pulls his hand away, as if fearing his touch had singed him. Like it ever could.

Oliver belatedly looks out the window, sees the slew of rain pouring down it, not even in droplets anymore, and then seems to understand. Elio’s lip trembles now.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Elio’s voice is hardly a rasp, and Oliver _sees_ the meek statement more than hears it.

But Oliver just watches him, close and warm and still. There’s no _oh, no way!_ look on his face, no wry smile, no surprised spark in his eyes. If anything, he appears guilty, himself.

Instead, Oliver lowers himself down onto the floor in front of Elio with a low grunt, sitting right in front of him.

Thunder crashes against the house once more and Elio shuts his eyes tightly again, hands squeezing himself as he grits his teeth, pain pulsing through his lower belly.

Oliver cocks his head in confusion at this, narrows his eyes at Elio before grabbing his ankles and pulling his legs down.

 _“Elio,”_ he hisses in sympathetic pain, taking Elio’s hands away from between his thighs and holding them in his own, “Elio. You can’t just… that’s not going to help.”

When Elio gives him the _I can sure as hell try_ look that Oliver was expecting, Oliver says, “You can’t distract yourself from an emotionally painful situation by creating a _physically_ painful one,” he says, shaking Elio’s hands lightly for emphasis, thumbs rubbing Elio’s palms.

Elio swallows thickly, hands clenching as thunder cracks against the window again. Oliver watches him.

“Do you want me to get you ice?” he asks.

“No!” It rips itself out of Elio’s mouth immediately, panic clawing at his chest. _No, don’t leave, please._

Oliver doesn’t ask again, but he does get up wordlessly and leave the room. Elio’s lip quivers, fresh tears stinging his eyes.

When thunder smacks the sky again and Elio jumps, Oliver calls out from the bedroom as if reading his mind, “Don’t even think about moving your hands!” It’s teasing and serious at the same time, but how _else_ is Elio supposed to distract himself when he feels like he can hardly move? It _hurt,_ yeah, whatever, but at least he could focus on something that wasn’t the _loudloud_ thunder.

Oliver comes back seconds later with a tabletop radio and two towels. He sets them on the closed toilet lid, brushes his toes gently against the top of Elio’s feet with a reassuring smile.

Then Oliver turns the shower on, the spray hitting the tub’s floor in a light but relenting patter, dulcet and familiar. He takes the little radio and twists the knob until he stumbles upon a channel playing piano classics. It’s staticky, and Elio scrunches his nose as he tries to place the melody, but the song is distinctly _Chopin._

Oliver watches him from outside the shower as he has one hand under the stream, adjusting the heat before plugging the drain and letting the water pour from the faucet. Elio cannot place his look but finds it soft and cradling.

“Come,” Oliver says then, offering a hand.

Elio takes it. He doesn’t need to know why, doesn’t care.

Oliver starts stripping his shorts, unbuttoning his shirt and laying it on the floor. He steps out of his underwear.

 _“Now?”_ Elio asks, staring.

“What?” Oliver blinks, laughs. “No. No, I wouldn’t - no, Elio,” he says, softer.

“You’re scared. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t help you? Baths help everything,” Oliver explains knowingly.

So Elio begins the tedious work of unbuttoning his shirt with trembling hands. Thunder cracks again and Elio jumps, closing his hands into fists and taking a staggered breath.

Oliver takes a step closer, outstretching his hands. “Can I?”

Elio nods, mouth parted in embarrassment and fear. But Oliver is nothing but sincere, a gentle smile on his lips as he unbuttons Elio’s shirt, pulling it off and dropping it on top of his own. His hands reach the drawstring of Elio’s shorts and he pauses, looking up at him.

Elio nods again. It feels like all he can do is nod, but Oliver still reads him perfectly, still reads each nod like a full sentence, would never mistake a nod for anything other than exactly what Elio meant.

With careful hands, Oliver slips his fingers below Elio’s waistband, pulling his shorts and underwear off as one. Elio steps out of them, a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. He doesn’t feel awkward, doesn’t feel uncomfortable or unsafe or less-than.

He just is. And Oliver just is. And they just are, together.

When they’re both in the tub, the water nearly overflows, just two or three inches shy of sloshing onto the floor. Oliver sits with his back against one end, and Elio against the other. Their legs are slotted precariously between each other, Oliver’s bracketing Elio’s hips, and Elio’s bent between Oliver’s.

He takes one of Elio’s feet, rubs his thumbs against the arch of his sole with pressure. Elio winces but leans into it after a moment, the pressure leaving his shoulders and his head tipping back, legs splaying. His hands hover in the air, and he wants to make some sort of _yes, go on,_ gesture, but he lets them fall in his lap, relaxed.

Elio hears more than sees Oliver’s chuckle, a breathy, knowing thing that eases Elio.

A particularly loud clap of thunder rattles the house, and Elio jumps so suddenly that water splashes over the side of the tub onto the towel. Oliver shushes him, lets go of his foot and twists the knob of the radio louder with wet fingers.

“I hate thunderstorms,” Elio breathes out, eyes wide.

Oliver laughs humorlessly. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Elio scrunches up his nose, mocks Oliver in a childish tone. Oliver smiles, presses hard on the dip of his foot. Elio hisses, pulling his foot away before kicking him lightly in the thigh, high enough to act as a warning.  

Then Elio twists his body around, leaning back against Oliver, laying between his thighs. Oliver welcomes him openly, hands wrapping low around his stomach, with Elio’s on top.

The song changes, something lighter and airier. Elio immediately recognizes it as Bach; the same song he played for Oliver. It was ironic, Elio thinks now. That song is delicate but forceful, frantic, all the keys demanding to be touched. In a way, when he had played it, it was like he was actually touching Oliver instead, in the same rebelling and rougher way that he used on the keys.

He had teased Oliver then, playing it differently twice, refusing to comply with Oliver’s request.

 _“Play_ that _again.”_

_“Play what again?”_

_“The thing you played outside.”_

_“Oh, you want me to play the thing I played outside!”_ Elio had teased, still rebelling, playing each version with more force and emphasis and passive-aggressiveness than before.

And then, finally, he had given in, offered Oliver the song he truly wanted. A gentler and _truer_ touch to the piano keys and, in the same way, to Oliver.

So it was ironic now, in a soft and refreshing way.

When the next roar of thunder beats down on them, Elio still flinches, but Oliver holds him close.

Elio takes a deep breath, slides down into the water with his eyes closed against Oliver’s belly, knees sticking out above the water. This time, instead of hearing the aftershock, all Elio hears is the muffled, warm music on the radio, Oliver’s fingers carding through his curls.

Elio’s fingers on either of Oliver’s thighs tap out the rhythm of the song, and his heartbeat against the back of Elio’s head is the perfect metronome. Always there. Always constant.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed that. Love seeing my boys happy because god knows it didn't happen in the long-run. I may write more CMBYN stuff, but check out my other work if you liked this in the meantime!
> 
> PLEASE leave a comment or kudo if you enjoyed it!
> 
> ig: petr.prkr


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